Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  He accepted his helm from a slave and let it dangle by the straps. “I thought they would have figured it out already.”

  Hamrin snorted. “Yair too good at it by far, but ye’d best have a care, lad. Upset them, and ye upset the jansu.”

  That he could control the beast inside, even a little, gave him hope. It required a level of focus he hadn’t known he could achieve. The rakeshi, he was learning, instinctively defended itself when Sherakai felt threatened or got angry. Sherakai’s own response to fight or flee heightened the speed of reaction.

  “Will he come, then?” he asked, half wishing he could see the jansu. Maybe the rakeshi would remove the man’s face.

  “I should think it’d be a lot easier to fight these yokes on the sands than him.” He didn’t look up from checking that buckles and straps were in order and Sherakai’s armor in perfect repair. “Besides, ye might change yair tune today. Take a gander at what’s strutting out of its lair.” He nodded to an opening across from theirs.

  A tall man with curly orange hair swaggered onto the sands. He was either extremely broad-chested or his breastplate gave him that appearance. Odd-shaped beads hung on leather thongs, clattering against his mail with each step.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s that redhead ye wanted to kill once upon a time.”

  “No, those things he’s wearing on his armor.” He stared. The armor itself was gaudy and overworked. The coin the heroes won in the games couldn’t buy good taste.

  Lord Bairith’s preferences didn’t run to the garish, thank the stars. He still wore the detailed blue-black cuirass with its segmented shoulder plates. He still had the gold-colored bird helm with its feathered, winglike cheek guards. At least his armor didn’t come with multicolored curlicues on a body of… copper? Nor did it have jewels inset. Protective spells, yes, and he could assume Red’s had the same. It made the fights last longer, but every blow fragmented the spells until they left the wearer unprotected.

  Hamrin turned his head and spat. “He collects teeth from his victims, dead or not. And if they don’t have teeth, why a beak or a claw will do.”

  Red lifted a hand to the crowd as he spun in a slow circle, smiling, urging them to deafening noise. Rings glinted on his plated gloves. It was just as well the sun would never catch on them and blind his opponent.

  “Why do they call those who make it to this level heroes?”

  Hamrin didn’t answer, but moved around to Sherakai’s other side to finish checking his armor.

  “Does he know who he’s fighting?”

  “Surely. His sponsor can read the lists as easy as I can.”

  “Does the jansu bet on him?”

  “Still got a hundred and eleven questions after all, eh? Aye, he’s a fighter, that one. Unpredictable and ugly, but he wins a lot. He usually pounds away at one or two places on his opponent until the protective spell breaks. Then he goes in for the kill. Doesn’t like taking chances.”

  Sherakai tested each weapon to see that it came free easily. “He must have good control to keep hitting the same targets.”

  Hamrin grunted and stepped to the opening, hands on his hips. “Now and then he switches to his left hand and makes a poor show of it. He’s left-handed.”

  “And people fall for that after watching him?” The heroes had no secrets from each other—not in the arena, anyway. They had the liberty to observe all the matches they pleased.

  “Some. But ye haven’t seen him fight yet, so I’m telling ye.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He paused. “Why?”

  “It’s yair ninth match.”

  A death match, of course.

  He clapped Sherakai’s armored shoulder and gave him a little push to start him on his way. “Don’t let him win. I’ve got money on ye this time.”

  Sherakai resisted. “Did the jansu buy this game?” Hamrin’s expression was all the answer he needed. He didn’t ask why. Pitting his creation against a good source of coin was—well, brilliant, he supposed. Away from the arena for what passed as years here, Sherakai had fallen out of favor among the bettors. It was a good play for Bairith to promote Red in the earlier matches, win a lot of coin on him, then put everything on odds that Sherakai would win. And Sherakai had helped him by deliberately losing his previous eight matches. Did Hamrin not know, or did he choose not to tell him?

  He laughed softly, humorlessly. Looking out at the arena, he bent his focus inward on the link. Yes, the jansu was there, eager and expectant.

  “Are you all right, lad?”

  “I am. I just am, Chief.”

  Sherakai left shelter of the corridor and walked out onto the sand, into the ambiguous light, and into the shouts of the multitude. The booing and hissing did not surprise him. It didn’t bother him, either; it was just noise and would change when the winds of battle blew it another direction.

  Turning, he looked up at Bairith’s box, chin lifted. The jansu stood at the railing, garbed in elegant dark gray. He smiled at Sherakai and put one hand over his heart. A surge of pride pressed through him. He waited for the compulsion to kneel, but it did not come. Instead, Bairith gestured to the arena. The raucous disapproval of the seething mass did not change; if anything, it grew more ugly.

  ~Be magnificent.~

  The words brought a shiver of anticipation Sherakai reined in with an inclination of his head. Then he settled his helm in place and buckled the strap.

  Red had donned his helmet too. He waited with one hip cocked, his long sword drawn and resting jauntily against his shoulder. “So it is you.”

  “More or less.” He studied his opponent, searching for any sign that he, too, had been endowed with a spirit creature. Although Mage Tylond had bragged about their rare accomplishment, Sherakai refused to take anything for granted. He could pick out a hazy aura of purple tinged with red—if he squinted.

  “Less, I’d wager. Losing every match,” he tsked. Yellow eyes gleamed with malice. “So sad. Do you cry when you limp back to your quarters? What was it they used to call you?” He made a show of tapping his chin and thinking. “Crybaby, wasn’t it?”

  Sherakai pulled on his gloves, then stretched his neck one way and the other, as if he needed to loosen his muscles. He strode right up to his opponent until they stood nose to nose. “Are we going to fight?”

  “Are you in such a hurry to die?”

  Red didn’t give up an inch, which was fine with Sherakai. Without any warning, his mailed fist smashed into the mocking mouth. The long sword jerked up. Before he could begin a swing to retaliate, Sherakai caught Red’s wrist. He twisted as he bent, and heaved the taller man over his back and to the ground. The sword fell with a thump. In a heartbeat, Sherakai had his own blade drawn and the point resting against Red’s cheek. Deliberately, he drew a line of crimson beneath one yellow eye. “Are you still conscious?” he asked solicitously. “Because I seem to remember you passed out last time I put you in the sand.”

  Above them, laughter and hooting joined the dissonant cries filling the air. Red’s mouth twisted in fury. He slapped the sword point aside and rolled free.

  Sherakai let him go and stepped around him, away from the dropped sword laying nearby. As he did, he drew his knife. “Need a hand up?” he inquired.

  Red spoke in a language Sherakai didn’t recognize. The venom in his voice suggested insult. Retrieving his weapon, he waved it at Sherakai’s head. “Do you even know how to fight?”

  He kept a ready stance, concentrating on Red’s eyes, on the way the man moved, on the disdain twisting his bitter-shaped mouth. Every breath must remain steady. Every thought must center on the specifics of combat and nothing more. This is an exercise, he told the rakeshi, hoping it could hear him. It had never responded as though it might. We know the steps of this dance. Feel the weight of steel in our hands. Watch him breathe. Move with his energy.

  “Fool,” Red supplied when Sherakai didn’t answer. “Do you forget this is a nine? You don’t give niners a second chance
to take your head off. Unless you’re stupid.” His grip shifted. His chest lifted on an inhale. The heavy sword leaped into a blur, the sharp edge eager to savor blood.

  Sherakai’s crossed blades pushed the danger up and away. In the moment it took Red to recover, he stepped inside his reach and struck one-two-three. High near the arming point on Red’s shoulder. The metal buckled. Two points broke. Fist curled around the hilt of his knife, he punched him in the face again.

  Red staggered backward. His left arm sagged, but he forced it up again to grip his sword in both hands and spun. Droplets of blood trailed through the air, crimson against the dismal backdrop of sand.

  Sherakai dipped, rotated a fraction, and took the blow just behind his right shoulder. If Red didn’t have the power of the aro, that armor covered some prodigious muscle. “Ox?” he asked, his sidesteps forcing Red to follow as he tried to gain room to swing again. If Bairith had altered him with the spirit of a rakeshi, perhaps Red’s master had done something similar to him.

  “If I’m an ox, you’re a rat’s backside.” He charged.

  Sherakai parried again and again, leading him in a wide, uneven circle. As Hamrin had predicted, Red chose two points to hammer. He redirected enough to prevent success, but the armor took a beating. So did the man inside. Sweat trickled down his cheek. Down his back and sides. Little by little, a glaring shimmer lit Red’s outline. Sherakai backed away. Peace, peace, he demanded in counterpoint.

  Red’s bloody teeth showed. “That’s right, pray, Crybaby. See if that’ll help you.”

  “Trying to save you,” he grunted.

  “Then stop making me chase you. Lay down and die already!” One feint followed another, then came a giant two-handed blow that crashed into the side of Sherakai’s head.

  He spun all the way around, the sand rising up to meet him. Habit closed his eyes and dropped his shoulder to absorb the impact of the fall. The resounding clang of metal warped his sense of space and distorted the roar of the crowd. Worse, it signified a real danger. The rakeshi crowded him.

  No, no, no. Breathing hard through his nose, he used the energy of the pain to steady himself. Details were his salvation. What was the damage? Surely the sword had sunk clean into bone. A stroke of wind cooled his sweat-damp hair. Another flutter kissed his cheek. It felt good, but it should never have happened. He’d lost his helm… Bleedin’ stars.

  “Are you still conscious?” came a mocking voice from a long distance.

  He licked his lips. Tasted sand and blood. Spat it out.

  “Need a hand up?”

  Teeth clenched, he got an arm beneath himself and pushed up. “No. Thanks.” On his feet again, he swayed alarmingly in the direction of the clamor in his ear. One fist clamped on the sword, the other on air. His knife gone, he loosed the hatchet strapped to his thigh.

  “Should I be afraid?” Red sneered.

  Sharp edges of light illuminated the rim of his helmet, the decorations on his breastplate, and the blade of his sword. They pulsated in time to a new pain emerging in Sherakai’s temples. “Yes,” he growled.

  Red laughed.

  He thrust at the rakeshi to force it back into the depths but it wouldn’t go. A strange sensation pushed back from the other side. Through the link… Sherakai shook his head in mute protest. The throb grew to match the vicious prodding from the jansu. He had a fleeting impression of furious features and brilliant blue eyes, then Red struck.

  Chapter 45

  Sherakai came to on a cot in one of the arena’s underground chambers. The customary lamps washed everything in a sickly yellow-green. He had never gotten used to it. Hamrin Demirruk leaned against the doorframe, his harsh features more strained than Sherakai had ever seen them.

  Ah, yes, the match. He must have won. He pushed himself up and swung his feet to the floor. The movement elicited a groan and a wave of dizziness.

  “Easy, lad, easy.” Hamrin straightened but didn’t come any closer. “How’re ye feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.” Only a bit of a croak. His head felt as if it had been caved in. The smaller aches and pains of a beating paled in comparison.

  “Anything broke?”

  Sherakai quirked a brow. Usually, if a body were knocked unconscious during a match, healers examined him—presuming his opponent didn’t finish him off while he was incapacitated.

  “His lordship told me not to touch ye until ye came around.” Hamrin gestured toward his own eyes.

  He grunted and shifted, flexing and checking bone and muscle. The rakeshi left a peculiar, fading sense of disorientation. He still wore his armor. Sword, knife, and hatchet were missing, but the weapons he hadn’t unsheathed during the fight remained. What would Hamrin have done if the rakeshi had made use of those tools and attacked him? Pulling off gauntlets covered in gore, he gingerly examined his dented skull. “I can’t hear well out of this ear, and my vision’s blurry on this side.”

  “Can ye stand?”

  “Can I see a healer?”

  “Lord Chiro expects ye directly.”

  His jaw worked. “Did I not perform well enough?” He should know better. Not sound so bitter.

  “Sherakai,” he started, and lifted both hands, only to let them fall again as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “Lad, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” None of this had ever been Hamrin’s fault.

  “I didn’t know—Aye, I did.” He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Not the particulars, but ye asked me for help and I turned ye down. I knew what those two were capable of, and I still walked away. From a boy. I didn’t think—didn’t want to believe the jansu would do… that to one he loved so well.”

  “You’d likely be dead now if you hadn’t ignored me.” There was no denying the truth. The deaths of Fesh and Teth had created reality out of suspicion. Who was he that anyone should risk their life for him? He rubbed bloody fingers together, then wiped them on his pants. Warmth trickled down his neck and beneath the collar of tunic and leather. Ignoring it, he heaved himself to his feet. As he listed toward the wrecked side of his head he had a fleeting memory of doing the same thing on the sands as he faced—Who had it been? All he remembered were ugly yellow eyes.

  “Conscience is a cold weight.” Quick as thought, Hamrin crossed the room and caught Sherakai’s elbow. “I expect it’ll only get heavier by the day.”

  “What do you want from me?” he demanded irritably. Elevation only made his head pound more vigorously. He feared he might pass out, and he hadn’t the least inclination to use the energy of pain to propel himself up the interminable stairs to face the jansu.

  “I’ve no right to ask anything at all,” Hamrin murmured.

  “But you want forgiveness.” Sherakai couldn’t comprehend this sudden remorse. He didn’t know if he could forgive him.

  “No, lad, I just want to get ye upstairs. Get this meeting over so we can clean ye up and put ye back together if we can. Are ye steady now? There’s water there by the door.” He stepped away, but his hand hovered to catch Sherakai again if he wavered.

  He focused on the solidity of stone beneath his boots. “And then?”

  Hamrin shrugged. “If we both make it out of the meeting, we can talk about it.”

  Sherakai’s life would persist, they both knew. Hamrin himself had no such assurance.

  “Water would be good,” he acknowledged. Beside the bucket sat his ruined helmet. One wing-shaped cheek-guard had broken off, and the dome was crushed. Broken and jagged. He touched his head again in wonderment.

  Hamrin brought a drink, then produced a kerchief to clean the blood off Sherakai’s face. He rinsed the cloth, then folded it and used it for a makeshift bandage. With his head bent for Hamrin’s ministrations, Sherakai noted the condition of his armor. Blood and gore covered him liberally. “Is all this mess from the man I fought?”

  “Aye.” He tugged the knot snug, then drew his knife to cut a hank from the blanket on the cot. “Ye tore him apart. Never seen such a thi
ng before. Took out two of the cleaners, too. The others escaped.”

  It was the villagers all over again. This wanton ruin was Bairith’s choice, and when Sherakai hadn’t delivered, the jansu fixed him. Again.

  Hamrin kept him upright. “Easy, now.” He spoke as gently as he would to a spooked horse.

  “Is he pleased?” He hardly dared to voice the question. How pathetically childish he sounded.

  “I haven’t seen him. He sent a messenger for ye.” He dipped the cloth in the bucket and did what he could to remove the worst. The cloth was too small.

  Sherakai caught his wrist. “Leave it. He likes my blood.”

  The expression in Hamrin’s eyes became bleaker. He nodded and stepped away, tossing the rag into the bucket.

  Sherakai had no answer for it, no comfort, so he picked up the remains of his helmet and limped out. Hamrin directed him out of the maze to the corridor, then walked beside him the rest of the way. Up and up they went, then out into the tiered stands. The creatures they passed stared. Some of them wanted to pound his back—or his front—or perform their version of a handshake. Others spat at him, and more than a few gave him a tongue-lashing. He did not understand their words, but their expression and tone were not lost on him. Curses, he imagined, or demands that he make up for their losses. Hamrin Demirruk put himself between Sherakai and trouble.

  “Idiots,” he swore, and Sherakai had to agree. Did they want him to remove their arms as well? After the second time Hamrin shoved an agitator away he drew his blade. He went on with it in his hand until they finally arrived at Lord Bairith’s balcony overlooking the arena.

  The mage turned from the window, garbed in sophisticated gray velvet. His new chain of office graced his shoulders. His aura, unmistakable in this time and place, gleamed sharp and bold.

  Like ice, Sherakai thought. “Lord.” The simple inclination of his head set him off balance. Discreetly, Hamrin caught the back of his cuirass.